I'll be my own savior...
Hello! Happy spring!
Oh, you’re right, I know, it’s not spring yet, and some of you are probably thinking, “Hey, you haven’t blogged in six months! Don’t come tapdancing back in like everything’s fine!” You would be the observant ones. And I promise that if you make it through the end of this post, there will be puppy pictures, so it’s probably best if you keep reading.
I know my blogging is sporadic, but sometimes I just think, “Oh, people don’t need to know that. They aren’t interested. I should talk about fun things like book covers instead.” But the more I thought about, the more I realized that it’s sort of doing you—the reader—a disservice. Oh hey, look, I’m rambling.
Here’s the deal. Last September, life sort of sent me reeling, as it has a tendency to do. I was in Decatur, Georgia for the Decatur Book Festival when I got word that my stepfather had been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, the same disease that stole the life of the wonderful writer LK Madigan. The only way I can describe that disease is that it’s like March: in like a lion, out like a light.
My stepfather passed away 30 days after his diagnosis, pain-free and ready to leave this earth. Not that we were ready to let him go, but that’s the way it is and that’s the way it happens every day. He was incredibly proud of my success as a writer: during the last few days, one of his doctors greeted me with, “Oh, are you the author?”
Just as I was recovering from that loss, my grandmother passed away in early November, three days shy of her 91st birthday. I loved her more than I could ever eloquently explain in a blog post and not having her around has been difficult. She was the most amazing craftswoman I have ever met: when I was little, she made most of my clothes and stuffed animals, including a pelican with stuffed fish in its beak; she handsewed all of our Christmas ornaments that still hang on our tree today, and in the most spectacular feat of grandmotherhood ever, she sewed a stuffed camel that was wearing a bra.
Let me explain.
When I was growing up, my favorite poem EVER EVER EVER was “They Put a Brassiere on the Camel” by Shel Silverstein. I especially liked to recite when there were a lot of people around, no doubt to my parents’ thrill. My grandma thought it was the funniest thing she had ever seen and decided to whip up a little something with her sewing machine. The googly eyes really brought the whole thing together. I know I still have that camel somewhere.
After one of our visits, the last thing my grandmother would always say to me was, “Well, we had a few little laughs, Robbie.” I think that’s probably the best attitude to take about life in general. Just have a few little laughs.
(Actually, that’s not true. The last thing she would say was, “When am I going to be a great-grandmother?!”, which WHAHAHAHAHAHAHA oh man *wipes tears of laughter from eyes*)
I have to be honest with you. After all that sadness and loss, I didn’t want to write anything. Writing used to be my safe place and it just up and went camping out in the wilderness for six months. Even my Song of the Day blog wasn’t fun anymore. I needed to recharge, restart, regroup, and whatever other re- words are appropriate here.
So I did what any rational person would do. I moved across town and got a dog. I MEAN, OBVIOUSLY.
I moved to Silver Lake, which is on the east side of Los Angeles, and depending on traffic and the time of day, it’s easier to get to Arizona than the beach from here. I’ve always heard a lot of rumors about hipsters overrunning this part of town, but from what I can tell, most hipsters are from the Mid-Wilshire area. Just a personal observation.
Moving was sort of a big deal, mostly because I had been living and working in a 500 square foot studio apartment for 13 years. If you want to know what that’s like, gather up all your belongings and move into your closet. It’s a little tight. But now I have 1000 glorious square feet…and not a lot of furniture. A table would really be handy right about now.
But the best part about moving? My lovely office!
Isn’t it cute? It’s actually a closet, but it’s been reappropriated. Oh, the irony.
And then Puppyface came into my life.
I had been looking for a dog for a while and was insistent on getting a girl dog so I could name her Eleanor Rigby. When I went to the shelter to see a little maltese, though, I could tell that she and I were not a match. She was the size of an aspirin and had enough energy to power a rocketship. The woman at the shelter suggested I see the maltese’s cratemate, a little boy shih-tzu named Gage. I said yes, mostly because I didn’t want to be judged by all the shelter employees.
It was love at first sight.
Gage was eighteen months old when they found him on the 110 freeway in south LA. That’s right. ON THE 110 FREEWAY. That’s how he got his name; they found him near the Gage offramp. He barely weighed twelve pounds, so how he survived on the freeway is anyone’s guess. I have a nice big car and I can barely handle the 110 freeway.
Now Gage is named Hudson and he is the sweetest lovebug ever. He often gives me looks that seem to suggest that he’s barely tolerating my shenanigans. In other words, he’s Ron Swanson.
Another fun thing about having a dog is that you find yourself screaming things at the top of your lungs, like “OMG DON'T EAT THAT DOG'S POOP!” and “OMG ARE YOU CHEWING GUM?!” (Hand to God, both incidents happened. We’re fine now.)
Diva puppy.
Another wonderful thing about Hudson is that he made me want to start writing again. Not that he knows this, of course, but having him around puts a new energy into the air. So I decided to start slow and write a FAQ about myself. Hud thinks this is over the top, but then again, he’s not the one getting questions for people’s book reports. Although he might after people read this blog.
Now someone is insisting that I cuddle him, so I hope you are all lovely and stomping towards spring. Thank you for reading my ramblings, both on this website and elsewhere. You make me very, very happy.
